She came into my palace at half past Matins. Tall, blonde, with a figure like sin--it could make your soul burn for a thousand years, unless it was dealt with in a one-on-one absolution with a priest. Preferably after a few martinis.
Thank God I'm not a catholic.
"I'm looking for the Most Reverend Gordon Frost," she said. Her voice was husky, hungry, and I found myself rising for hymn 345. Ave Maria.
"For you, presiding."
"Mister Frost, I'm here for my father. This is an urgent matter of ecclesiastical writ."
